


Thinking of you

by Buttros



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Minor Character Death, Series 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9349952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttros/pseuds/Buttros
Summary: Moriarty's message affected Sherlock in ways that seemed irreparable. The truth of the matter, however, is that with John Watson, he can overcome any challenge.





	1. How do you sell a big lie?

John sighed, stretching his body beneath the thick covers on his bed as he closed his eyes and let the exhaustion he’d been feeling for the past days drag him down to a blissful darkness. He almost didn’t hear his phone buzzing on the nightstand. John lazily picked it up and squinted at the bright screen.

_Hey._

The message said, simply, and John smiled at the word, fumbling with the keys on his phone with his thumbs.

**You’re up late**

_Or early._

John chuckled, shaking his head.

**Go to sleep, Sherlock**

There was a long pause, and John almost put his phone down before it vibrated again.

_Can’t stop thinking about you._

John stopped breathing as he read the message exactly 10 times before he accepted that it was Sherlock who’d written those words, and that they were addressed to John. They have never explicitly talked about their feelings for each other, always playing on the edge and never taking the big leap. _But this…_ John though, biting his lip. His heart was hammering in his chest as he tried to come up with something to say. He eventually went with:

**Go make us some tea**

He got up from his bed, changing from his pajamas to normal clothes and picking up his keys to 221b on his way out. Technically he wasn’t allowed back at Baker Street per Mycroft’s orders, but John was never good at following rules anyway. Besides, John hadn’t seen Sherlock for over 3 months, ever since the Tarmac. He checked his phone one last time before getting in his car, confirming that there were no new messages, and driving away. 

After a couple of minutes of silence his phone rang. John answered it without looking at the screen, a smiling.

‘‘Doctor Watson, where are you going?’’ Mycroft said, effectively making John’s smile slip away.

‘‘They say The Big Ben is beautiful this time at night’’

‘‘Doctor, as I have said many times before, I am certain that Moriarty will attack if you and Sherlock are in the same room together. Haven’t I made clear the risks of the contact between you two?’’

‘‘Do your job, then. Turn away the cameras, place security at our doorstep... I don’t know’’

‘‘Doctor Watson-’’ Mycroft sighed, exasperated

‘‘Oh look, a tunnel! I think I’m losing you’’ John mocked before ending the call. 

He parked in front of Baker Street and was guided by the lights from within his home. The creak that the front door made was so familiar that it brought a smile to John’s lips and a warm feeling on his chest. There was no sign of Mrs. Hudson being awake, so he just made his way upstairs, two steps at a time. 

John froze upon seeing Sherlock Holmes, the love of his life, completely immobilized by fear and shame. The first thing that John thought was that he was going to kill Mycroft with his bare hands.

Clara used to talk to him about her time with Harry and her relapses, and the general feelings that accompanied them. There was sadness, impotence and compassion, of course, but the first feeling – and the most dangerous one – was anger. On that stage, it’s very easy to be selfish. To only think about how the relapse of the one you love reflects on you and your past actions. John had been selfish before, yelling at Sherlock during the Magnussen case, but he since then vowed to never do that again. 

‘‘If Sherlock ever… God forbid but, if he ever’’ John had said, three nights after knowing of Sherlock’s past drug habits, six years ago.

‘‘If it happens, you need to understand that it’s not about you. It can never _be_ about you. Don’t talk about how upset you are, don’t act like you’re disappointed. He will already hate himself for failing, and he will probably think that he is unworthy of your affection and time. All you should do is care for him’’ Clara had said, her voice, even over the phone, was soft ‘‘Be a doctor, John’’

_Be a doctor_ , John though, as his eyes cast over Sherlock’s thin frame. There was a scrub on his cheeks, which were too hollow for John’s liking. He was fidgeting from one foot to the other, a teapot in one hand and the kettle in the opposite. He placed them on the table, running his hands on his hair. 

‘‘I didn’t think you would come. I mean you… you-you said you didn’t…’’ Sherlock hugged his ribs, leaning against the counter and frowning. He was blinking hard, as if unsure of his own eyes. 

‘‘Oh, Sherlock’’ John sighed, looking at the syringes all over the kitchen, the science equipment that seemed to have doubled and the complete absence of eatable food. He pushed his shoulders back, raising his chin, and walked over to Sherlock. 

‘‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. Please’’ Sherlock said, stepping away from John and raising his hands, effectively forming a barrier between then.

‘‘Sherlock, you don’t need to be afraid’’ John whispered, raising his hands as well ‘‘I’m not going to hurt you’’ 

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his posture slowly relaxing as he believed John’s words. His face was still apprehensive, and John wanted nothing but to kiss him better.

‘‘I could never hurt you, love’’ John said, finally holding Sherlock’s wrists, only aware of the term of endearment after he said it, when Sherlock’s eyes widened in disbelief. John raised one hand to run his fingers through Sherlock’s dirty hair, and decided that he needed a plan ‘‘How about we order some food, and while we wait for it we get you cleaned up?’’

Sherlock’s bottom lip trembled and he watched, bewildered, as John pulled him towards Sherlock’s (their) bathroom. That room was also a toxic waste, but John made do, speed cleaning as Sherlock waited by the threshold. Once he was done, starting the water on the tub, he felt rather then heard his phone ringing, and he didn’t need to look at the screen to confirm that it was Mycroft. John took it out of his pocket and removed the battery, confiding his absolute attention on Sherlock. 

He looked at the tub awkwardly before rubbing at his neck ‘‘Do you want to do this alone or-’’

‘‘No’’ Sherlock rushed to say, interrupting him. He played with the hem of his shirt for a bit before whispering ‘‘Please, don’t leave me’’

John felt something tug on his chest at the rawness of his request, but he forced on a smile before saying ‘‘Alright then. Let’s get you out of those clothes, yeah?’’

Sherlock watched John closely as the detective stood bare in front of him, as John shaved him and washed his hair… as he gently ran his fingers over the marks on Sherlock’s arms. It was only when John brought one of Sherlock’s hands up to his lips that Sherlock finally spoke. 

‘‘I don’t understand’’ He said, his voice small and a bit petulant. John smiled at his tone, so much like his usual self.

‘‘What don’t you understand?’’

‘‘How do you not hate me?’’ Sherlock pulled his hand, hugging himself to hide his prominent ribs. 

‘‘Sherlock, you had a relapse. I’m not going to stop caring for you because of it’’ 

He stared at John with frightened eyes ‘‘You care… for me?’’ Sherlock’s voice broke as he brought his knees up to his chest. 

John frowned, his breath caught in his throat, and went with a whispered ‘‘Yes. Of course, I do’’ as he caressed Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock sat up straight on the tub at that, slashing water around and effectively wetting John’s trousers. ‘‘John, it’s my fault that your wife is dead. She gave her life for mine, jumped in front of a bullet. Why are you pretending that it never happened?’’ 

John was silent for 7 full seconds, processing Sherlock’s words, before he said ‘‘Sherlock, A.G.R.A is in prison’’ 

Sherlock just looked at him in open confusion, eyes sweeping over John’s clothes as if to determine the veracity of his words.

‘‘They arrested her right after the baby was born. I provided the memory stick as evidence. Just a month after the whole ‘Miss me?’ shenanigan’’

Sherlock clenched his jaw and brought his hands up to place his fingers against his temples. ‘‘But the six Thatchers… The aquarium… Mary… she…’’ 

‘‘Sherlock. _Love_. I have… no idea what you are talking about’’


	2. Redbeard

_I have no idea what you are talking about… I have no idea what you are talking about… I have no idea what you are talking about…_

John’s voice echoed loudly in Sherlock’s mind, making him unable to think rationally in his mind palace and, at the same time, a prisoner within its walls. He tried, nonetheless, to piece together all that had transpired in the last months. There had been cases, such as the one with the six Thatcher busts, in which Mary’s past came back to hunt her. People had died because of one word, a code word, and Sherlock’s arrogance caused the death of someone else. There had been a christening, several times when he helped baby sit… John’s soft and beautiful face as he played with Rosie. 

‘‘Sherlock?’’ John’s voice, with the softest and kindest tone which he has ever uttered, anchored Sherlock in his confusion. John was closer now, both hands on Sherlock’s face, a frown above his assessing eyes. 

Sherlock could feel the difference between this John and the one he had been seeing the weeks before. The water around Sherlock’s body felt like it always did, as did everything else that his senses were receiving. But as he looked at John he felt as if he’d been woken from a dream and his mind was slowly beginning to work again. It wasn’t perfect, and Sherlock didn’t trust himself or his memories, but it was enough for him to know that at least John’s touch was real.

‘‘What about Rosie?’’ Sherlock whispered, blinking hard to disperse the blurriness from his eyes.

John swallowed, wiping Sherlock’s tears with his thumbs ‘‘Who… who is Rosie?’’ he asked, his voice small as if he were afraid to upset Sherlock any further.

The detective felt his bottom lip trembling, but he mustered some self-control to ask ‘‘Isn’t that her name? Your daughter’s name?’’

‘‘I don’t-’’ John stopped and pursed his lips before pressing them against Sherlock’s forehead, keeping them there as he continued ‘‘She wasn’t mine. The baby was David’s, and he named her Elizabeth’’ John pulled back to read Sherlock’s reaction, then kissed his forehead again ‘‘How about we get you out of this tub and into some clothes, yeah?’’

Sherlock was helped up, and he didn’t pay attention to John drying his body and leading him to his room to be dressed. His doctor was murmuring something – rhythmic sentences in a low tone – and Sherlock took some time to realize that it was a poem. That, along with the heat of John’s body and his hand on Sherlock’s lower back, was soothing in ways that the detective didn’t quite understand. John left him for a moment, though, running around Sherlock’s room with a bag in one hand and his phone between his ear and shoulder, talking with someone and sounding very upset. Sherlock sat in his bed watching him, despite the painful chaos that his mind was in.

John guided him out of their flat, and Sherlock welcomed the warm seat of John’s car without any questions, sighing in relief as John’s hand came to rest against his thigh. ‘‘Thank you, John’’ he said, not really sure what he was thankful for. 

‘‘Rest, love’’ John murmured, and his words brought a smile to Sherlock’s lips and blissful darkness to his mind.

The first thing Sherlock noticed when he came to was the sunlight. The second was that even with his headache, his mind was clearer and sharper. He opened his eyes to the moving green scenery outside his window, and he contemplated it for a moment before turning to look at the driver who was – according to Sherlock’s calculations – the most beautiful man in the world. 

‘‘John’’ he whispered, and said army doctor turned to look at him a bit startled.

John’s gaze was nothing but professional as he tried to determine Sherlock’s health state. Whatever he saw must have been troubling, because there was concern behind his kind smile as he returned his eyes to the road.

‘‘Sherlock’’ He said, going for a joking tone. 

‘‘Where are we going?’’ 

John hesitated for a second ‘‘If I’m right, to get some answers. If I’m wrong, just… away’’

‘‘What do we need answers for?’’

‘‘What _don’t_ we need answers for? Ha Ha’’ John joked, awkwardly ‘‘Isn’t life just a series of puzzling events?’’

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from smiling ‘‘What are we getting away _from_?’’ 

‘‘I mean… London’s economy is horrible after the Brexit, so there’s that’’ John’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he swept them along John’s body to try and deduce some sense into this, and memories from the night before assaulted his brain. 

_Mary was arrested a month after the Tarmac. She hadn’t been out with him solving crimes. Rosie didn’t exist… No. None of that is important! John. John is the only thing that matters. He isn’t mad at me, because I didn’t kill his wife. He took care of me, he kissed my forehead and called me ‘love’ he… he saw me naked._

Sherlock felt a blush form on his cheeks. He looked away from John and to the road, closing his eyes and trying to focus on something else, like the fact that-

‘‘None of it was real’’ John said, casting a glance at Sherlock before turning his eyes towards the road again. 

‘‘I didn’t immediately start taking drugs, after my… near overdose’’ Sherlock said, a big part of him afraid of John’s judgement. The doctor just looked at him, waiting for him to continue ‘‘I only started after you… said that you didn’t want me in your life’’

John frowned, placing his hand on Sherlock’s thigh before guiding the car to the side of the road an into a stop and looking at said detective. ‘‘Sherlock Holmes, you listen to me. I would never in my right mind not want you in my life. Do you understand?’’

Sherlock smiled, biting his lip as he nodded in agreement. ‘‘It wasn’t you, I know that now. I know that you are real and… the John from my recent memories wasn’t. Not even my mind can conjure you and all your… traits’’ _or perfections_ , Sherlock’s mind supplied. 

John looked at him for a moment before deciding he was satisfied and starting the car again. 

‘‘So the real question is: how did I imagine all of that? It felt real, John. Everything that happened. But no mind palace can make all of that up without stimulants, and I only willingly took them a couple of weeks from now’’ Sherlock frowned, listing in his mind a number of drugs that could have been given to him without him knowing.

‘‘I have a theory for the ‘how’. What’s really worrying me is ‘why’’’ John’s tone was rough. 

Sherlock nodded ‘‘Why would someone go to all the trouble of making me imagine the things I did’’ then he looked at John ‘‘What is your theory?’’

‘‘Baskerville’’ John said, ominously, and as if on cue the Dartmoor Forest appeared outside his window. 

‘‘H.O.U.N.D’’ Sherlock murmured, connecting its composing elements to Henry Knight’s symptoms. 

‘‘Whatever you received must have been that times a thousand, but I wouldn’t put it past anyone to enhance the effects of this drug. Who has the power and connections to drug you with this and, at the same time… keep us apart?’’ John clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, slowing the car to take the entrance to the small village where they’d stayed a few years ago.

Sherlock sensed his tension and wanted nothing more than to take his hand. He opted for a safest way to show his affection ‘‘John, have I ever told you that you are pretty damn smart?’’

John smiled and side eyed Sherlock before raising his chin ‘‘No, I don’t believe you have’’ 

‘‘Well, you are. Pretty damn smart, I mean’’

And really, Sherlock should pay John compliments more often, because his answering grin was radiant, even if it didn’t last long. John parked in front of the Inn and Sherlock was just about to leave the car when John’s hand caught his.

‘‘I didn’t protect you’’ John whispered, finally meeting Sherlock’s eyes ‘‘I _should_ have protected you’’

Sherlock gripped John’s hand, slightly amazed that he was allowed to do so. ‘‘That’s not your job’’

‘‘Yes, it is’’ He said, and it felt like something much more meaningful was happening. Sherlock looked at him, his John - the real John - and wondered how he had been fooled for so long by that imposter. The man before him was absolutely perfect. ‘‘Let’s go get some rest’’ John continued, removing his hand to grab their small backpacks and get out of the car, and Sherlock followed right after. 

Once in their room, Sherlock quietly claimed the bed by the window and watched as John stood still, a hand against his cheek as if pondering with a dilemma. 

‘‘I’m really considering putting broken glass on the floor’’ John murmured. His eyes seemed unable to stay open.

‘‘You didn’t sleep at all last night’’ Sherlock said, walking over to John to drag him towards his bed. 

‘‘What if someone comes in and tries to take you away? You are not yourself yet’’ John protested even as he let Sherlock remove his shoes and trousers. 

‘‘My mind is much clearer than it was yesterday. I think being away from the flat helped’’

‘‘That’s not good enough. You haven’t eaten, you’ve barely slept…’’ John said as his head met the pillow, his eyes closed and his hand gripping on Sherlock’s arm. 

‘‘I’ll order some vegetarian soup from the room service. Who knows, maybe Gary will give us a discount’’ Sherlock said in a low tone, trying to soothe John into sleep, but the doctor just smiled.

‘‘Ask him if they adopted a murderous dog’’ He grumbled, which made Sherlock giggle.

‘‘I’m no expert in human interaction, but I don’t think that that would be well received’’ Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair, marveling at its softness, until he noticed that John had fallen asleep. ‘‘Whatever was given to me…’’ Sherlock whispered, liking his lips before continuing ‘‘I think you’re the antidote’’

Sherlock watched John for a couple of minutes, before lying in his own bed and entering his mind palace, which was quieter and more stable than it was the day before. Using John as a decoder ring for his memories proved to be an effective way to sort out the truth from the fiction. He couldn’t tell for sure if his meeting with Mycroft and Lady Smallwood had been real, but he assumed it was, since he wasn’t currently in prison. The day after that, however, on January 3rd, someone began to plant false memories in his mind. 

_Why go through all that trouble? What is the point of making me imagine going out on cases with John, participating in the first months of his child, making Mary a part of the group only to turn her into a martyr? What was the point of making John hate me?_

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the army doctor, still asleep. 

_John has a theory of the ‘who’ as well, something that he is not telling me. He said ‘Who has the power and connections to drug you with this and, at the same time… keep us apart?’ Christ, think! January the 3rd I woke up and received a text from John, where it said that he was coming over. Obviously, that wasn’t real, so it started the night before. Just before he went to sleep. Before… Before..._

_‘‘Sherlock…’’ said the voice in a sing-song tone, bringing a chill up Sherlock’s spine. He was lying in his bed at Baker Street, the pain behind his eyes so strong that it made him cry. He didn’t feel connected to his limbs, he couldn’t move. The voice, as if sensing his agony, laughed ‘‘Do you remember… redbeard?’’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments!


	3. What about her?

John woke up startled, reaching for a gun underneath his pillow that wasn’t there. It took him some time to remember where he was and what he was doing there. He glanced at Sherlock, who seemed to be in his mind palace, and wondered if the detective had eaten like he’d promised. One look around the room for used plates informed John that he hadn’t. Sighing, he took the phone and ordered them both some food. 

There were things that John needed to say - things that had to be resolved between them before it was too late. What Sherlock suffered in the last months was proof of that. John sat in his bed, elbows on his knees and palms covering his face, and finally gave into the fear and self-hatred – to the absolute desperation of not being around to protect Sherlock from becoming prey of someone’s sick game. _You need to be stronger_ , he thought to himself, _and you need to tell him how you feel._

John looked at Sherlock, oblivious to John’s internal monologue, and took a long calming breath. His decision to come to Dartmoor, despite what he had told Sherlock, was more driven by anger than anything else. He wanted to get Sherlock away from all of that, of course, but he also wanted to face their threat once and for all. He was ready to fight and sacrifice all the he was and all that he had. 

John waited a couple of minutes before he tried to get Sherlock’s attention. He pressed his hand against Sherlock’s hair, murmuring his name. 

The detective opened his eyes, and the fear and confusion in them were slowly replaced by relief and softness. ‘‘Hi’’ he said, his voice small.

‘‘Where were you, just now?’’ John asked, tugging lightly on Sherlock’s curls to calm him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and presented more of his hair for John’s ministrations ‘‘Trying to remember something. Anything’’ he murmured, and John sat on his bed to gain a better access. 

‘‘Any luck?’’

Sherlock rose in a sitting position, hugging his knees and placing his chin between them ‘‘I think so’’ he whispered. There was a beat of silence ‘‘This feels nice’’

John smiled, caressing Sherlock’s ear, and leant forward to press a kiss on his forehead. Their eyes locked as John pulled away, the air around them was thick with all the words unsaid, all the feelings unaddressed. In the end, it was Sherlock who broke the silence.

‘‘Tell me about her’’ He whispered, and John didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. 

He sighed ‘‘Mary is being kept in a maximum-security prison. I’ve been arranging her incarceration ever since the day after I found out she shot you’’ 

Sherlock’s eyes widened at that and John frowned at his reaction.

‘‘You didn’t think I would just forgive her for that, did you?’’ John said, before taking a deep breath and rising from the bed and walking over to the table ‘‘Sherlock, when they bring up our food you are going to eat all of it, understand? Billy the skull looks more alive than you do’’ John laughed, trying to ease the tension, but his smile slipped away when he realized that there was something meaningful in Sherlock’s silence. 

The detective had hidden his face with his hands, and John was just about to apologize when Sherlock rushed over to him, engulfing John in a hug. ‘‘John, you didn’t need to… to push away the woman you love for-’’ 

‘‘I never loved her’’ John interrupted him, hugging Sherlock’s waist and pressing his face against Sherlock’s neck ‘‘She is a murderer and just… a horrible and manipulative human being. I was planning on leaving her even _before_ she shot you. Finding out her crimes just made it all easier, I guess’’ 

Sherlock backed away to look at John’s face, eyes flicking between his features as a slight blush formed on his cheeks. He must have been embarrassed for his reaction, because he started to pull away from John. The doctor, however, was having none of it, and pressed Sherlock even closer against himself.

‘‘What… what about you?’’ 

Sherlock looked confused, no knowing where to place his hands or what John was talking about ‘‘Me?’’

‘‘Yes… What about… well… how do you feel about… _her_?’’ John tried to swallow away his discomfort without much success. Saying the words that needed to be said involved much more bravery than John was expecting.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in disbelief and he was silent for ten full seconds. ‘‘John Watson, it’s been five years’’

‘‘She… meant a lot to you and-’’

‘‘John Watson’’

‘‘Irene was, hm, smart and, well, enigmatic… like you, I guess’’ John looked down with a frown, already upset that he brought that woman up, which only became worse when Sherlock threw his head back, laughing. ‘‘Glad you’re having fun’’ John said, and this time he tried to pull away from the hug, but Sherlock stopped him.

‘‘John. Irene Adler manipulated both of us into playing her game, and we did. I saved her from death and you were jealous of her. Until _now_ , apparently’’ 

John snorted and sputtered ‘‘I’m not _jeal_ \- wait, what do you mean ‘saved her’?’’ 

Sherlock shook his head, looking down at John fondly ‘‘She’s alive, somewhere. And I never had feelings for Irene Adler’’ There was a beat of silence, but he continued, almost shyly ‘‘Why are you asking me about her?’’

John almost hid his face in the croak of Sherlock’s neck again. He took a deep breath for courage before continuing ‘‘I’m done with things being… unspoken’’ 

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his expression soft and hopeful and absolutely beautiful. ‘‘John, y-’’

But there came a knock on the door, effectively interrupting their moment. The smell of their food made John realize how starving he was – and Sherlock seemed equally sidetracked. Their conversation, consequently, was put on hold. 

‘‘I remembered something’’ Sherlock said, his soup nearly finished. John just looked at him, waiting for him to continue ‘‘I don’t really know if it was real or not, but I’m guessing it was. The forged memories seemed to be… thematic, in a way’’ Sherlock casted a quick glance at John before continuing ‘‘There was someone saying a word to me… ‘Redbeard’’’ 

‘‘Redbeard?’’ John said in between bites.

‘‘That was the name of my childhood pet, a bloodhound. He… well, I never had many friends and he was… he was my friend. He became very ill, so my family had to put him down’’ Sherlock frowned ‘‘I was very upset, and-’’

‘‘Let me guess, Mycroft somehow convinced you that feelings weren’t good?’’ John said with a harsh tone. 

Sherlock nodded, and he looked surprised at John’s deduction ‘‘Ever since that, Mycroft reminds me of Redbeard whenever I’m displaying any sort of emotion towards someone. A way of saying ‘Be careful, this will hurt you’. He said it to me at when Uncle Rudy fell ill, at your wedding…’’ 

John decided to overlook that last part – even though he really wanted to ask – to focus on the subject at hand. ‘‘So, it’s Mycroft, then. The person who’s been drugging you’’ John got up from his chair and walked around the room ‘‘He’s the one who kept me away from you for all those months, too. ‘An attack in imminent’ he said. ‘You’ll just put Sherlock in danger’’’ 

‘‘John, you mustn’t jump to conclusions’’ Sherlock said, calmly. 

‘‘What, do you have another sibling that would ‘reprogram’ you into an emotionless sociopath?’’ John was aware of how angry and loud he sounded, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

‘‘Don’t be ridiculous’’ Sherlock said, shaking his head. ‘‘It is dangerous theorize before you have all the data, and you really want to believe that Mycroft is evil. Even if project Hound hasn’t been reactivated or updated, we can test my blood and see if something comes up’’

‘‘But Sherlock, who else could get their hands on a drug like this? Who else has the power, the resources _and_ the motive?’’ 

‘‘So, you think that Mycroft wants to turn me into an ‘emotionless sociopath’?’’ Sherlock made the quotes with his hands. 

‘‘Doesn’t he?!’’ John placed a hand on his forehead, already listing several ways to kill Mycroft, before Sherlock walked over to him and placed both hands on John’s waist. 

‘‘John. This is too much of a ridiculously complicated plan for my brother to engage in. Besides, he _wants_ me to be with you. This person’s plan seems to rely on me believing that you hate me and don’t want me in your life any more’’ Sherlock waited for John to argue. When he didn’t, Sherlock continued ‘‘That’s what I meant when I said that the memories were thematic. They were about you’’

John’s face softened, but that was soon replaced by a bemused frown ‘‘But… what about Redbeard? Wouldn’t Mycroft know about this and use it against you?’’ 

‘‘I do believe that Mycroft is involved in this, somehow, but not willingly. He told the story about Redbeard and this person somehow equated my feelings for Redbeard to the ones I have for you. Maybe they are trying to convince me that a life caring for you is a miserable one, whereas a life feeling nothing at all is better’’

‘‘Jesus’’ John whispered, shaking his head ‘‘Why go through all that trouble? What could they possibly gain from that?’’

Sherlock shook his head, raising his eyebrows ‘‘Don’t know, but I do think that Baskerville holds at least some of the answers we need. But more to the point: you have frustrated their plans. I don’t think they wanted the memories to stop at you hating me. I think they wanted me to realize that you were not worth my affection in the first place… maybe making you behave out-of-character, somehow’’ 

John nodded ‘‘They could make you believe that I have… hurt you, or assaulted you’’

‘‘Yes. So right now, things are not going their way’’ Sherlock frowned and his whole body tensed ‘‘And if you had this much power and resources… what would you do next?’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ''Maybe you have an evil sister that you don't know about!''
> 
> ''John. That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard''


	4. Tapanuli Fever

The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers were known to be legends among the military community, hence why being one of them literally opened doors. Sherlock had asked John why, once, and the doctor told him tales of their feats, but never the one truly responsible for their fame. Moreover, between all the seven fusiliers who composed the Fifth, John was the only one who knew the whole story – being the only one who survived Kandahar unharmed. Not even the official file – given to Sherlock by Mycroft - had all the information.

Sherlock had often (obsessively) wondered, but never had the bravery to ask. What’s important to take from this is that Captain John Watson was quite used to danger and impossible missions. He was not just a doctor: he was a soldier, which was something very useful to the situation at hand. 

They drove to Baskerville in silence, and Sherlock trusted John’s plan implicitly even without knowing what it entailed. It turned out, however, that Sherlock wouldn’t need to do anything, which was very fortunate given the circumstances. 

‘‘Stay right behind me, okay?’’ John said taking charge, a gun in his hands and a fierce look on his face. 

The story of how they entered Baskerville was an exciting one, filled with fights, robbery and a useful (and unexpected) horse. Sherlock wished he could remember every detail of what John had done. The reason he couldn’t was because John was… _he was_ … 

‘‘I was wondering if it still fit’’ John laughed, pulling down the sleeves of his jacket by its cufflinks then running his fingers through his hair, a smirk on his lips. He focused on Sherlock, who was using the wall of the lab they’d just broke into as support ‘‘You okay?’’

‘‘You… you-’’ Sherlock frowned, unable to keep himself from looking at John up and down ‘‘You are wearing your uniform’’

John’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline as his lips twitched into a smile ‘‘Yes’’

‘‘It looks… um’’ Sherlock frowned at his inability to form sentences. 

John chuckled walking towards Sherlock in a jokingly sexy way, and it only served to make Sherlock more flustered. ‘‘Do you…’’ he wiggled his eyebrows ‘‘ _like_ my uniform?’’

Sherlock bit his lip as his eyes met John’s. With his back still against the wall, he slid his feet forward until he was looking up at John, and whatever the captain saw in his face made him stop laughing. There was a tension in the air, pressure against Sherlock’s chest and heat coiling in his belly. His eyes cast down to John’s lips, his neck, his hands… Sherlock didn’t know what he wanted, exactly, and he didn’t know what to say. 

John must have known, though, because he came closer still. He placed his index finger on Sherlock’s belly button, such a strangely intimate act, and yet it brought a whimper out of the detective. Their breaths intertwined, the heat and sent of John’s body making Sherlock drunk with desire… with want. He _wanted_ …

‘‘Christ’’ John cursed before placing both hands on Sherlock’s jawline, thumbs pressing against Sherlock’s chin to bring it up and towards him, towards his lips. 

Their mouths crushed in a kiss that was hot, wet and _demanding_. Years of pent up emotion and affection prevented them from having any sort of finesse in the act. Sherlock just knew that he needed John to touch him in all the right places, to tug and push and pull and _feel_. He needed his love. He needed him. 

‘‘Sherlock’’ John breathed, pulling away, which was unacceptable. 

The detective moaned in annoyance, kissing John again, until he placed both hands on Sherlock’s chest to keep him away. 

‘‘Sherlock. We came here. To do something’’ he was breathing hard and starring at Sherlock’s lips, mirth on his features. 

‘‘Why?’’ Sherlock whispered, running his hands up and down John’s arms.

John smiled, incredulous ‘‘ _Why?_ ’’ 

‘‘Yes, why?’’ Sherlock looked down for a moment ‘‘Why don’t we just run away?’’ 

The was a long silence, and John raised Sherlock’s chin to meet him eyes, suddenly very serious ‘‘Do you want to run away?’’

Sherlock bit his lip and frowned, kicking himself mentally for being responsible for changing the mood so abruptly. ‘‘I mean… I just want to be somewhere where we can do… _this_ ’’

John’s face softened. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and pressed his lips to Sherlock forehead. ‘‘I know you are scared. I’m scared too. But you will not face this alone anymore’’ He kissed Sherlock softly, gently, reassuringly. ‘‘Is that okay?’’

‘‘Yes’’ Sherlock smiled, finally straightening himself away from the wall.

‘‘Yes, _sir_ ’’ John said, jokingly, making Sherlock’s eyes widen. 

‘‘Yes, sir’’ he whispered, ridiculously affected by this. 

John took a deep breath, closing his eyes and taking a step back and away from Sherlock ‘‘Christ’’ he shook his head ‘‘Okay. Let’s hm… let’s take a blood sample, yeah?’’

Nothing conclusive came from the blood tests, and they resorted to the secret files kept in the Baskerville database. 

‘‘Honestly, their security system should be better’’ John said, and Sherlock hummed in agreement. 

The detective went through their experiments, everything that this military institution was funding. ‘‘Apparently, there is a drug that causes memory loss: TD-12’’

John hunched over Sherlock to read its description ‘‘ _The drug was created for trauma victims who wish to forget what was done to them_ ’’ John frowned ‘‘ _The effects vary from subjects, causing a simple stomach ache in ones and vivid nightmares in others_ ’’

‘‘A large quantity of this was bought by a Culverton Smith’’ Sherlock murmured, checking all his recent purchases.

‘‘The philanthropist?’’ John asked, making Sherlock look at him, confused.

‘‘Is he a famous person?’’ 

John nodded ‘‘He owns a hospital… but why he would buy this in his name and not the hospital’s is… weird’’

Sherlock sighed ‘‘In any case, my problem isn’t memory loss, it’s memory inception. But I don’t see anything here that would make someone so subjective to another person’s control’’

‘‘The Tapaluni Fever’’ said a voice from behind them. Sherlock and John turned to discover that Mycroft had entered the lab, and was standing by the threshold with a dozen armed men behind him. ‘‘It’s just starting to hit the market of western China as a powerful hallucinogenic, which people colloquially call ‘dream catcher’’’

Sherlock turned his chair to face Mycroft as he felt John tensing beside him, reaching for a gun on his back.

‘‘It only works if you induce a reality that the subject would accept’’ Mycroft walked towards them, closing the door behind him and thus separating them from his soldiers. ‘‘I couldn’t prevent him from doing his applications on you, so I… assisted him. And I made sure that your health was cared for’’

‘‘That his _health_ was _cared_ for?! Do you have _any_ idea the stage I found Sherlock in?’’ John yelled, finally putting out his gun, even if just to keep it by his side. 

Mycroft looked at the weapon with a frown, almost sadly ‘‘Yes’’ he sighed ‘‘Yes, I know’’

‘‘Who is he?’’ Sherlock asked, raising from his chair and holding John’s wrist, preventing him from aiming his gun at Mycroft.

‘‘The original idea was that Mary Watson – or Agra, as you call her – would be placed in your lives for the soul purpose of manipulating both of you into an inevitable estrangement. But you, Dr. Watson, frustrated their plans’’ Mycroft smiled sardonically ‘‘He couldn’t just kill you, John, because that would turn you into a martyr in Sherlock’s eyes and go against his goal. No, he had to turn you into a monster’’ 

‘‘Who. _Is_. He?’’ Sherlock growled. He felt John moving his gun to his left hand to hold Sherlock’s, the warmth of him keeping him grounded. 

‘‘Isn’t it obvious?’’ Mycroft smiled, humorless ‘‘I’ve been under his thumb for over six years, doing his beading, obeying his every whim. In all that time, he’s been obsessed with you, with your mind… he wants to… corrupt you’’ Mycroft frowned, and Sherlock could see his brother’s eyes watering. He whispered, ‘‘I’m sorry I didn’t protect you better’’ 

There were three seconds of silence, after which hell broke loose. Men rushed in from both doors and the top windows, screaming at them incomprehensible things. John pulled Sherlock down to the ground, lying on top of him.

‘‘Listen to me, everything will be-’’ John started, but was interrupted by a loud noise: the sound of a gun going off. The love of Sherlock’s life flopped on top of him. 

‘‘John?’’ Sherlock whispered, pressing his shaking hand to John’s neck and sighing in relief when he found a pulse. He looked around him, taking in the scene, and noticed that all guns had tranquilizers in them apart from one, the gun pointing at Mycroft’s head.

His brother was kneeling, looking at Sherlock calmly and reassuringly ‘‘Little Brother’’ He said, smiling ‘‘Remember Redbeard’’

Sherlock had three seconds to process the gun going off and Mycroft’s body falling to the ground before the sound of another shot echoed through the lab.

Everything went dark.


	5. Two of us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really upset with season 4, and this was the way I found to feel better, so thank you for indulging me :D

Sherlock woke up in a comfortable king size bed, in a large fancy room that seemed to belong to a mansion. He laid there, and it took him three seconds to remember all that had occurred. The men, the guns, John’s unconscious body on top of him. _Mycroft’s lifeless body hitting the floor_. Sherlock pressed his hands against his mouth, stifling its sounds as his eyes watered. 

But his sobs were far too loud in that large room. Sherlock didn’t even feel his mind wandering deep into itself, falling until the doors of his mind palace locked themselves shut.

‘‘I’ve told you many times that caring is not an advantage, Little Brother’’ a hand was pressed on Sherlock’s head. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up and finding his brother sitting on the bed, beside him, with his back against the headboard. ‘‘Mycroft… you-’’

‘‘Oh, I’m quite dead’’ Mycroft smiled, folding his hands on his lap, looking around the room – the same Victorian room that Sherlock made his own when he tried to investigate the murder of Amelia Riccoletti. ‘‘I’m always impressed by your attention to detail in your mind palace’’ 

‘‘I spend more time in here than I should’’ Sherlock murmured, imitating Mycroft’s position on his bed. 

Mycroft eyed Sherlock’s trembling bottom lip with a raised eyebrow ‘‘I’ve been telling you all your life that caring is not an advantage, and this is… precisely why’’

Sherlock nodded, looking at the door with a frown ‘‘I don’t think I can get out of here’’ he whispered, only looking back at his brother when Mycroft took his hand.

‘‘You can’’ he said, smiling, then he sighed ‘‘Do you know why I always remind you of Redbeard?’’

‘‘So that I can close myself of and… not feel’’ 

‘‘Well, yes. But there is a lot more to the word than that’’

‘‘Redbeard was not… my dog?’’ Sherlock asked. Which made Mycroft frown.

‘‘What? Of course, he was. Implying that he was the result a childhood trauma that persists to define you would be terrible story telling’’ Mycroft shook his head, and Sherlock nodded, agreeing. ‘‘You’ve always… felt so much. Your heart was so pure and beautiful, always has been. I’ve never wanted it to be tainted with sorrow, and yet it was: Redbeard died. After that I helped you develop a thick shell, and reminding you of him was my way of remind you of how dangerous feelings were’’ 

‘‘You were right’’ Sherlock whispered ‘‘It’s paralyzing…’’

‘‘No, I was wrong’’ Mycroft said, emphatically, forcing Sherlock to look at him ‘‘In my fear of you feeling grief I closed you of from love’’ Mycroft’s face softened ‘‘And love, dear brother, especially the love you feel for John Watson, is a vicious motivator’’ 

At the mention of his name Sherlock was stung into motion, crippling fear, denial and courage fighting for dominance in his mind. Sherlock tried to focus on hope, repeating _‘John is alive and fine’_ in his mind like a mantra. He rose from the bed and squared his shoulders, trying to be brave, even as tears continued to fall from his eyes.

‘‘Have you guessed who has been doing this, then?’’ Mycroft got up as well, walking around the room ‘‘Who is hellbent on portraying an emotionless version of Sherlock Holmes and cannot accept that he loves John Watson? Who is only concerned with the crime work, but not the obvious romance between the detective and his doctor?’’ 

Sherlock looked at his brother and nodded, inhaling deeply ‘‘I think so’’

‘‘Well then, dear brother’’ Mycroft smiled, the softest smile that Sherlock had ever seen in his brother’s features ‘‘Don’t you dare let him win’’

Getting out of his mind palace was as easy as opening his eyes. He was suddenly back at the fancy room, and Sherlock – after going for the door and finding it locked - used the boost of courage that his brother provided to deduce every single inch of it. The space around Sherlock had been cleaned to perfection. The rug bellow his bed brushed to erase any trace of footprint. There were pictures in frames all around, on top of the nightstand and other wooden furniture, all of him in different ages. John had been cut off from some of them.

Sherlock heard footsteps outside the door and was just about to grab something to protect himself with when a sudden dizziness hit him, forcing him to sit on the bed and place his head between his knees. The door opened and closed, the footsteps got closer still. Sherlock eyed the men’s shoes, trying to gain some control.

‘‘Oh no. Are you not feeling well?’’ He said in mocked concern, and Sherlock thought that he would throw up when he recognized the voice. ‘‘I would try to comfort you, but I suppose that everything that I could say has already crossed your mind’’

Sherlock groaned as James Moriarty sat beside him, placing his hand on Sherlock’s lower back. 

‘‘ _Shhh_. Sh. Sh. Sh. Don’t try to fight it, my dear. We have all the time in the world’’ He got up and sat cross-legged on the floor, right in front of Sherlock. He ran his fingers through the detective’s hair ‘‘This is so fun. Coming back to life, I mean. What’s happening _between_ us, right now, is _not_ fun’’

‘‘Where is… John?’’ Sherlock tried to say, slurring through the words.

Moriarty sighed ‘‘You see, that, right there, is _precisely_ why this isn’t fun. Everything is just John, John, John. That ordinary, ridiculous and boring little man’’

Sherlock felt his eyes watering, desperation burned in his chest and throat ‘‘Where’’ he sobbed, biting his lip until he tasted the blood, hoping that the pain would ground him.

‘‘He is getting ready’’ Moriarty grumbled, pushing himself away from Sherlock and rising to his feet ‘‘He has an important part to play in the final problem, my dear. Do you remember? Do you remember what the final problem is?’’ Moriarty was suddenly too close, lips against Sherlock’s ear ‘‘I did tell you’’ he snarled ‘‘But did you listen?’’

Sherlock didn’t use what remained of his strength to push him away. Instead he took a deep breath, swallowing around his pain. ‘‘What’s the point… of having-’’

‘‘You were perfect. Ever since you were a little boy, utterly perfect. I admired your intellect, your wit, your brain’’ Moriarty whispered, nuzzling at Sherlock’s ear, which made the detective sick to his stomach ‘‘I _love_ to watch you dance, always loved it. But in comes John Watson, this irritating man who dares to turn a god into a weak little boy. That’s what you are with him, Sherlock, a _little boy_ ’’

‘‘This is who I really am. With John, I just… have the courage to show it. I’m stronger because of him’’ Sherlock whispered, not sure if Moriarty understood him. He must have, thought, because he scoffed and got up, walking away from him.

‘‘Who you really are doesn’t matter’’ Jim said, his tone venomous ‘‘All that matters is the legend… the great brain. I’ve let go of millions of dollars’ worth of deals just to watch you…’’

‘‘So you’ve hurt all those people to… turn me into who _you_ want me to be?’’ Sherlock asked, frowning. 

‘‘Burning your heart out… proved to be harder than I thought. I told Mycroft to convince you not to tell John that you were alive. I placed Mary Watson in your lives to make sure that you were kept apart. I’ve drugged and manipulated you’’ Moriarty sighed ‘‘But I’ve come to realize, my dear, that sometimes, being literal is the best course of action’’ he clapped his hands and yelled ‘‘You can take him now’’

Suddenly Sherlock was grabbed by three pairs of arms and carried out of the room. It seemed that only his room had been decorated so extensively decorated. The rest of the house was still in bricks and concrete, light bulbs hanging from the ceiling and rooms without windows of doors. They soon reached a larger place that could be adapted into a ballroom. In its center, there was a pile of stumps of wood. 

Sherlock looked at it and felt the dread blind and suffocate him. He was placed on the chair closest to the fire, and handcuffed to it. 

He must have made a sound, because Moriarty was soon beside him ‘‘Yes, you know what this is for, don’t you? This won’t the first time that I’ve put John Watson in a fire. But it certainly will be the last’’ 

‘‘Please’’ Sherlock whispered, finally managing to look away from the fire and up to Moriarty ‘‘I’ll do whatever you want. Be whoever you want me to be. Just let him go’’

Jim just looked at him, his face a horrible mixture of anger and disgust. He opened his mouth to say something when some clatter amongst the men behind them interrupted him. ‘‘What is it?’’ he yelled, making Sherlock jump in fear.

One of the henchmen stepped closer to Sherlock, murmuring ‘‘We can’t find him, sir. He is not in his sell’’ 

Sherlock barely had time to register that the man’s voice was vagally familiar before Moriarty was yelling again, shouting orders walking out of the room. _John_ , Sherlock thought, tears springing freely from his face, _he got away… he got away_. His relief was short lived, though, because as soon as Moriarty’s steps died out the shooting started. Sherlock was still not in total control of his body, so he couldn’t look around to see what was happening. He used all his strength to fall to his side, taking the chair with him, in the hopes of escaping the line of fire. Pain irrupted from his shoulder just as he heard someone screaming his name.

Hands cradled his head and hips, and warm lips brushed against his ear ‘‘I’ve got you, love. I’ll get you out of here’’

‘‘ _John_ ’’ Sherlock sobbed, turning his head to look at his beautiful and perfect army doctor. He had a bruise on his left cheek, close to his eye, and his hair had been brushed back and away from his forehead. 

John smiled, looking at him briefly before turning his attention back at the handcuffs ‘‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner’’ He said, leaning down to press his lips against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

‘‘It’s okay’’ Sherlock smiled too, closing his eyes for a brief second when the room started spinning. Soon his hands were free, and he placed them on the back of John’s neck when the doctor started to carry him out of that warzone. 

As it turned out, the familiar voice that he had heard belonged to no other than Lestrade. John had escaped from his sell to phone for his help, unaware that Mycroft had arranged some backup even before what happened in Baskerville. His men didn’t know where Moriarty’s secret hide out was, though, and if it weren’t for John, the plan would have failed even before it started. 

‘‘I don’t know about you, but I am quite done with you being drugged up’’ John murmured against Sherlock’s neck. The detective was lying on the bed of an ambulance, where some doctors were taking his vitals. 

Sherlock snorted with what little strength he had ‘‘Me too’’

‘‘Honestly. Even if you have a fever, or something. I’ll just have to kiss you better’’ 

And Sherlock giggled, finally looking at John, who looked afraid despite his easy tone. He sighed, wanting nothing more than to kiss him ‘‘I’m alright’’

‘‘Are you?’’ John whispered, unconvinced.

‘‘Well, I’ll be alright’’ Sherlock closed his eyes again, grounding himself by John’s warmth ‘‘But most importantly, we are alright’’

John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s neck, jawline and cheekbones, only stopping to nuzzle at his hair. ‘‘We are’’ he agreed. 

‘‘Who we are’’ Sherlock swallowed, inhaling deeply ‘‘it matters. Even when people try to convince us that it doesn’t’’ 

‘‘Of course, it does’’ John murmured, finally pressing his lovely lips against Sherlock’s, convincing the detective of his worth ‘‘You are so loved, Sherlock, just the way you are. Did you know that? Do you know how _much_ I love you?’’

Sherlock looked at John again, and suddenly the gravity of everything that happened on the course of all those years dawned on Sherlock. ‘‘John’’ he whispered as his vision blurred.

John started pressing kisses all over Sherlock’s face, washing him in praises and affection. They were interrupted when someone cleared their throat. 

‘‘We need to take him to the hospital, Dr. Watson’’ a young male nurse said, shifting from foot to foot, awkwardly.

‘‘If you know who we are than you should know better than to tell me to leave my boyfriend alone in this ambulance’’ John, no, Captain Watson said, taking Sherlock’s hand in his. 

Sherlock nodded, looking at John ‘‘There is always two of us’’

And John’s answering smile was incandescent.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr!](http://not-really-my-area.tumblr.com/)


End file.
